by Karen Myers
“Be warned,” he continued, “The snow is deep and it’s about two miles. We’ll break trail for the vehicles as we go and there should be a place in the wagons for anyone who isn’t mounted, but I urge you to ride if you can to leave room for others. Can I see a show of hands for anyone who plans to join us?”
A rising hubbub filled the room at the news, though George didn’t doubt that Huw Bongam had already warned them this was coming. About a dozen fae raised their hands, and many more korrigans. Five lutins made their way through the crowd to the front, too, all dressed in red and a bit shorter even than the korrigans.
George called again for silence. “If you don’t have a mount and need a place in the wagons, come up to me now for a moment. I’d also like to see a leader for each group, someone who can keep track of its members before and during the ride so that we don’t leave anyone behind. Everyone else, start packing. And be quick about it.”
Two fae and a korrigan joined the lutins in front as most of the rest of the crowd dispersed to pack their belongings.
The elder fae spoke first. “I’m Meilyr. All of us are from elsewhere in Gwyn’s domains and came at his call. We have four in our party who are traveling to Edgewood as masters in their crafts. One of those is a colleague of Ceridwen. There are seven others who are seeking family long lost to them. I’m one of those.”
“Will you hold yourself responsible for their names and making sure of their whereabouts for our journey to the court?” George asked.
“I will.”
“Do any need wagons?”
“The craft masters brought equipment but we have our own wagons to haul it. All are mounted.”
“Thank you. Please assemble your wagons on the party already out front and take your instructions from the rangers there.”
The lutins came forward, led by one middle-aged lutine. She said, “I’m Rozenn. Some of us are looking for lost family, and others are seeking employment. I’ll be responsible for our names and well-being, but we’ll all need places in the wagons, with our goods.”
“Thanks, Mistress Rozenn. Please bring your people and your goods to me here. I’ll hold all the wagon loads in one place until we’re sure how many will be required.”
As she left, Huw Bongam returned. “How about it, huntsman? Do you know how many wagons you’ll need from here yet?”
“So far, it looks like there are five lutins and their gear who will need transport, but the rest are accounted for. So, just the one wagon. What’s the news from Thomas?”
“He thinks he only needs the one wagon I sent him for his group, so it’s not as bad as I feared. I’ll send out two drivers who can bring them back when the weather permits.” He sighed. “It makes me think of Isolda, your party of lutins needing a driver. I can’t get used to her being gone. She’d have loved the adventure.”
George frowned and gripped his shoulder. He turned back to the senior korrigan who was waiting patiently to speak.
“I’m Broch, and I’ll take charge of the fifteen of us from Gwyn’s domains. We, too, are craft masters and traders, hoping to re-open the route to Edgewood. We’ve brought our own wagons, and a few of us are riding as well. I’ve already sent our folks to assemble in the road with the others.”
One person was left waiting near the door, a fae who looked a bit younger than George. Unlike almost all the dark-haired fae George had met, he was redheaded and freckled.
“Not part of Meilyr’s group?” George said.
“No,” he said, smiling sardonically. “I’m just a lowly provincial musician—Cydifor. But I have hopes. No one said anything about Rhys Vachan having any musicians at Edgewood.”
“I’ve been there and I don’t remember any. But, you know, his cousin Rhodri is one, himself?”
Cydifor’s face fell, and George laughed.
“Don’t worry. Rhodri’s not there to stay for the long-term, and in the meantime he’s likely to prove a friend. I imagine he’s tired of playing by himself for his own amusement. Do you need transport?”
“I have a horse, but I’d appreciate space in a wagon for my gear, to ease the burden on her.”
“No problem,” George said. “Bring it here with the lutins’ bundles and then go mount up.”
Cydifor looked at George with unapologetic curiosity. “Did I hear Huw Bongam call you huntsman? Are you Gwyn’s new huntsman? I came through Danderi just after the great hunt and heard all about it.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself properly. I’m George Talbot Traherne, Gwyn ap Nudd’s great-grandson and, yes, his new huntsman.”
“I heard that someone died at the start,” Cydifor said, tentatively.
“That was Isolda of whom we were speaking. She had just started working as a driver. She was only eighteen and newly-betrothed, and she gave her life to save Gwyn’s foster-daughter from death at the hands of Cyledr Wyllt.”
“Who became the quarry of the great hunt.”
“Yes. He’s gone now.” There was satisfaction in George’s voice.
“Excuse me, but someone said you were human.”
“It’s true, more or less. I was brought here when the old huntsman was murdered. It’s a long story, for another time.”
Cydifor persisted. “They also said you hunted as the horned man.”
“As I said, a long story. We can speak at the manor house later.”
Cydifor took the dismissal in good humor and went off to gather his possessions.
George took a look around as he hurried off. He waved a hand at the locals who were left in the inn’s main room and went off to check on the assembly in the road.
George and his men finished loading the borrowed wagon and helping the smaller lutins scramble in. Their driver hastened out to join them, still munching the end of his meal and fastening his coat.
As he mounted up to ride the length of the group standing in front of the inn, George considered how long it would take to get the two groups together and then up two miles of snowy road before dark or the next storm. Probably about two hours, if nothing breaks down. He pulled out his pocket watch on its chain and confirmed that he had about that much daylight left. It was going to be close.
He spoke to Meilyr and Broch as he passed and got their assurance that everyone in their groups was accounted for, waved at Cydifor, and checked with Mistress Rozenn that all the lutins were set, with blankets piled around them, Cydifor’s instruments, and George’s dogs at their feet, to keep them out of the way.
“Alright,” he called to Thomas’s men. “Let’s move ’em out.”
The horses at the front of the line, including his own heavy Mosby, started out first, packing the snow down more tightly for the wagons that followed them. The korrigans, on their smaller horses and ponies, followed behind the heavier horses. The squeak of the dry snow combined with the rumble of the wagons and the creak of the horses’ saddles and harnesses to make it a noisy departure. Some of the drinkers at the inn waved from the doorway as they pulled out, the light behind them shining out onto the road under the darkened sky.
They didn’t have far to go. George held them short of the bridge and saw Thomas leading his group out of the gloom from the left. All the riders were as well-bundled as possible, and the people on the wagons had made good use of Huw Bongam’s blankets.
George walked Mosby over to confer with Thomas. “How do you want to do this?”
Thomas said, “Two of my men at the back, two along the sides moving up and down to keep them moving, and the two of us in front. I’ll have one of them do a count as they go by, so we know how many wagons and riders. Let me start out ahead to make sure there’s no special problem with the road. You come along on your horse at the head of the line to reassure them as we go.” He gave some last instructions to one of his men, then wheeled his horse around and crossed the bridge.
George turned back to the foot of the bridge, a grin tugging at one side of his mouth. He was going to be the master of a wagon train, i
f only for a couple of hours. Too bad he didn’t have a cattle herd to go with it and a good Stetson hat.
He faced the two lines of riders and wagons and raised his hand for attention. The groups quieted.
“Listen up. We have about two hours of daylight and it should be enough. We’re going to cross this bridge and go up the road on the far side of the stream, to the right. It’s a gentle slope, but uphill all the way. At the end is the lower gate of the manor house and one more brief climb up to where we’ll unload and get under shelter.
“Keep track of your neighbors. Don’t leave the line under any circumstances. If anything happens, a child falls overboard, anything, call for help from one of Thomas Kethin’s riders. Make sure your group leaders know where you are and, leaders, keep track of your people. It’s not that cold, but you don’t want to be outside overnight, wandering in the dark.
“We’re going to line up in sections. All riders on larger horses first, beginning with the group from the inn, then those from the way. Stick together with your group. The riders on shorter animals next, both groups. Then the wagons, starting with the lutins from the inn and then the rest of the inn party, and last the other wagons,” gesturing at the group from the Travelers’ Way. “Try to spread out on the road several abreast with your horses so the wagons behind you have better traction for their wheels. We’ll swap the leaders as we go so your horses can get a break.”
He paused. “Any questions?” No one replied.
Thomas trotted back over the bridge and joined him. “There are footprints, someone small, headed up the road since we came through earlier. Keep an eye out for him.”
CHAPTER 2
Maëlys looked up at the sky and despaired of finishing another mile and more before darkness fell. She hadn’t expected the roads to be so deep in snow, dragging on her skirts and her cloak and making each step a misery.
She’d started south of Greenhollow at mid-morning. It was only five miles and she’d been sure she had plenty of time, but it was getting harder and harder to move her feet, and she was worried about being trapped on the road at nightfall with nowhere for shelter.
This is what comes of refusing to listen to Brittou, she thought, and waiting for the roads to clear. The farm manager for Iona’s stock-raising operation south of the village had been kind to her after her husband Luhedoc was given up for missing in that last sweep of lutins into Edgewood, and she was grateful. He’d recently proposed marriage, at this stage in their lives, but she couldn’t make him understand that she still felt bonded to her husband, even after eighteen years. Now that the holder of Edgewood had been unseated, she had to find out what had happened to him, to all the lutins who didn’t come back.
She could picture his crooked grin even now, the one he wore when a trick he’d set up succeeded. She wanted his biggest trick to have been survival, whatever was wrong with the place that had trapped him.
She heard a panting noise behind her and turned. Out of the mist, a great beast came lunging toward her through the snow. She lifted a foot to run, and then realized it was just a big hound, baying with delight that he’d found her and dancing around her in exuberance.
“Get back here,” George yelled at Hugo as the hound leapt from the wagon of lutins and dashed up the road into the gloom, but before he could reinforce it with a mental call, he felt what his hound had smelled, a presence up ahead. He pushed forward at a trot on Mosby, his big gray Percheron/Thoroughbred cross.
He’d expected someone on the road ahead from the footsteps crossing the bridge, but he was unprepared for a middle-aged lutine, wet and exhausted, pestered by a hound almost her own size. “Good boy, Hugo. Now leave her alone,” he said to his dog, who settled down with an air of pride in his find.
“Sorry about that, ma’am,” he said. “Headed to the manor house?”
She nodded wearily.
“You must have just beaten us to the bridge. Let me give you a ride on one of the wagons.”
With that, he reached down to her upraised hands and lifted her up, pack and all, to a seat sitting sideways behind him. She wasn’t big enough to reach around his waist, so he swept his left arm behind him awkwardly to hold her and turned his horse back through the rest of the horsemen to the first wagon. Coming alongside the stopped wagon of lutins, he carefully lowered her down again, not releasing his grip until he was sure she was standing firmly on the wagon bed.
“Thanks for holding onto my other dog,” he said to one of Rozenn’s party who had a firm grip on the smaller feist. Hugo,” he called, “Get over here.” He dismounted to lift the heavy hound into the wagon, brushing off as much of the snow on him as he could reach to spare the other passengers.
“I’m Gwyn’s huntsman, George Talbot Traherne,” he said to the rescued lutine, as he remounted.
“My name’s Maëlys. I’ve come from Iona and Brittou, seeking my husband in Edgewood.”
Rozenn put an arm around her and sat her down in the midst of the warm nest of blankets. “Many of us are looking for family, too,” she told her.
As he left to rejoin the head of the wagon train, he called down to her, “If you have any trouble finding housing when we get there, ask for me.” Behind him, the wagons started forward again.
A knock on his door warned Madog of the entry of a servant bearing mulled wine. The man bowed low, placed the tray on a sideboard, and left silently.
Madog took advantage of the interruption to lay his pen down and rise from the table, scattered with papers, that occupied the back half of his private study. Warming his hands with a cup of the wine, he walked over to the windows and looked to the east.
He never tired of this view. Naturally, nine hundred years ago, he had caused his court to be built defensively high, up the steep trail from the valley floor, right on the northern tip of the mountain keel that bisected the broad valley of the Horse River, the Dyffran Camarch. His special discovery later made this physical defense unnecessary, but he admired the prospect of the Blue Ridge to his east from this height so much that he determined to live with the inconvenience of bringing goods and people up the mountain to keep his court there. It represented his ambitions and reminded him, constantly, of Annwn, just over the deadly ridge he couldn’t cross directly.
After all, he was not the one discommoded by the location, not since his little find. He glanced at the corner of the room, where his way-adept senses easily detected the entrance of his small personal passage to the village at the bottom of the trail. That was a successful creation, he thought, not like some of the other earlier ones, while he was still learning what he could achieve.
Creiddylad would miss this snow, he thought. He was surprised at how she’d grown on him, now that they were forced together, her pride of birth humbled by the renunciation of her brothers Gwyn and Edern. When she finally saw his court for the first time and realized his strength, that he wasn’t just the obliging and cunning younger adviser she’d thought him, she was both grateful and gratified, inclined to meet him on equal standing, her age and birth against his new world power.
They restructured their alliance, sealed at last by consort status since they had lost the need to keep up pretensions. He’d have to be careful about that as always. He intended to raise no other way-adepts here, not even of his own blood. It was pesky the way that skill cropped up every now and then and had to be eliminated, even after all this time, but he prided himself on his thoroughness.
Creiddylad was no longer constrained by family squeamishness and was fully behind his plans to unseat her one-time brother Gwyn. Madog was glad, now, that he’d taken her with him after she’d backed him at the great hunt, even though that plan had failed.
Right now she was reveling in her new freedom. Though still under banishment by her grandfather Beli Mawr for her old role in creating the feud between Gwyn and her ex-husband Gwythyr ap Greidawl, she had perfected the art of traveling under a glamour and thought the risk of detection was low. Gwyn couldn’t touch her her
e and, if she was discreet, no one would notice her in Britain.
He frowned at that. His way to Britain, the one he’d found nine hundred years ago from the other end, was still a closely held secret. It wasn’t enough that he controlled its use through the way-tokens—he didn’t want its location, or even its existence, generally known. If Creiddylad’s glamour were detected, it would raise many questions about how she’d gotten there. She knew this, but he wasn’t confident it would make her more cautious. What will she do if she runs into some of her old friends? Will she try and spy on Gwythyr?
Well, he couldn’t do anything about her from here. He had his hands full with the new situation at Edgewood, working out what could be salvaged from the wreckage of his prior plan.
He took another sip of the heated wine, the spices tingling in his mouth.
Can my work go forward? Well, why not? Gwyn may know more about me now, I’ve lost that element of surprise, but what can he do about it? None of them can reach me. I control all the ways into the great valley of the river, and none of us can cross the ridge overland. With my barrier in place, they can’t even go around the long way.
The barrier I built at Edgewood for Creiddylad is still working, and the little beast grows stronger every day. It was stubborn this morning, but unable to resist his will. I wonder what else I can do with it? How big will it get?
What could stop me? That Rhodri there, Gwyn’s way-finder, he’s no threat, I think, and Gwyn had very limited powers with the ways himself.
The huntsman’s a puzzle. My spies insist he’s the one who shut down the Hidden Way after the great hunt, though they don’t talk much about it over there. It’s hard to believe, he’s just a human distantly descended from Gwyn. It was odd how Cernunnos rode him at the great hunt. That didn’t happen to the old huntsman Iolo. Maybe it only happens with human huntsmen, because they’re weaker than true fae.